Being There
by Flywoman Returns
Summary: When things get bad, he's all you can count on. But when things get really bad, it's impossible to be certain even of him. Missing scenes from 5X24, "Both Sides Now."


**DISCLAIMER:** Do you see my name when the House M.D. credits roll? Didn't think so. Also, I'm pretty sure that I stole the AVMA from "Front" by blackmare.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** A simple explanation for Wilson's failure to follow through at the end of "Under My Skin."

* * *

_No. I'm not okay._

Cuddy walked ahead of House to open the door of Wilson's office, then stepped aside so that he could enter after her. Wilson was sitting at his desk, left hand in mid-scrawl. When he saw House's face, he put down the pen and slowly stood. His eyes flicked to Cuddy and back, almost shouting their implicit question.

"She knows," House said simply. Wilson exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Cuddy looked from one man to the other. "And so did you, apparently," she reprimanded Wilson, who flinched.

"I'm sorry that I didn't tell you. Did anything- I mean, is everyone okay?"

Cuddy clamped her mouth shut and shook her head, eyes suspiciously bright. House just gazed at Wilson, feeling lost and utterly exhausted.

"Okay," Wilson said. "Okay." He came out from around the desk and placed a comforting hand on Cuddy's arm. "You go home. I've got this."

"Are you _sure_-"

"Yeah," both men replied, Wilson reassuringly, House sounding resigned.

Cuddy refused to budge. "What's wrong with him?" she asked in a hushed voice, as if House might not be able to hear from right beside her.

"The hallucinations were from the Vicodin," Wilson admitted. "We've ruled out everything else. I have an old friend associated with a nice facility outside of Philly. I'll make some calls and take him there tomorrow." He glanced apologetically at House, almost as if asking for permission.

Cuddy stared at Wilson intently for a moment. "All right," she said at last, reaching out to squeeze House's arm. "Call and let me know if you need anything." With a final look backward, she left the office, latching the door behind her.

House's legs promptly buckled under him, and he sank onto the sofa. Although he felt curiously detached from the situation, his hands were shaking. He looked up at Wilson. "Hear anything about my patient?"

"I've been told that he's finally in his right mind again," Wilson deadpanned.

"Well," House said, "that makes one of us."

Wilson hesitated, then sat, just close enough for him to feel the faint radiating warmth at shoulder and hip. House knew that if he'd been anyone else, Wilson would have put an arm around him to go with the Concerned Cancer Doctor face. "House… what happened today?"

House just looked at him. "I'm the last person you should be asking," he pointed out.

* * *

Wilson drove, saying that House's car would be just fine in the parking garage until he got one of the fellows to help him bring it back. They were silent for most of the drive, each man lost in his own thoughts.

"Sounds like the wedding's back on," Wilson ventured at last.

"Hmm. I guess Cameron decided she didn't want to be homeless."

"Right," Wilson said, nodding thoughtfully.

House twisted in his seat and gave him a hard look. "Do you actually have any idea what I'm talking about, or are you just humoring the lunatic in case he turns violent?"

"Yes."

* * *

Without inquiry or invitation, Wilson followed House into his apartment and down the hall. "Gotta pee," House said, shutting the bathroom door in his face.

"I'm going to order out," Wilson called from the other side. "Kung pao sound good to you?"

House closed his eyes against a sudden wave of nausea, dry-heaved, and spat.

"House?"

"Whatever you want."

"That doesn't sound like you," Wilson said mildly.

"I'm not hungry."

"Right. I'll get a double order in case you change your mind."

When he returned to the living room, Wilson was on the phone. "Fine," he was saying. "We'll be there by nine. Thanks. Good night."

"Private donkey show?"

Wilson gave him a pained look. "Mayfield. A friend of mine from undergrad is the director. It's a nice place."

"Yeah. Practically a resort. I'll be sure to pack my swim trunks." House frowned. Something was bothering him, some inexplicable sensation of déjà vu.

"House. I know you're scared, but it's gonna be okay."

"You don't know that," House said. "You can't know that."

"I know you," Wilson said steadily. "I know that you can do this. If you really want to."

"Aww, that's sweet," Amber said, appearing over Wilson's shoulder. She cupped his cheek, bent down, and brushed her lips against his throat. Unsurprisingly, Wilson didn't react.

"Fuck off," House told her. Wilson's lips tightened as Amber pouted and vanished. "Oh, relax, Wilson. I wasn't talking to _you_."

"Yeah," Wilson said. "Now I feel a lot better."

* * *

House couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, but the smell of the Chinese food turned his stomach, so he settled for perching at the piano and running his hands over the keys in discordant notes as Wilson ate in silence. Afterwards Wilson wiped his fingers and rose to put the leftovers in the fridge.

When he returned, he stated, "I'm staying over. We'll leave first thing in the morning."

"Fine. Blankets and pillows are in the closet." _Right where you left them_, House didn't add.

"Actually, I'm planning to sleep with you."

"Why, Jimmy!"

Wilson sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean in your room. I'll feel better if I know where you are."

"Think I'm going to climb out the window in the middle of the night?"

"I wouldn't put it past you. At least this way I'll know if you get up."

House knew that Wilson slept like a dead man, and he knew that Wilson knew that he knew, but all he said was,

"If you wet the bed again, I'm telling Mom."

* * *

In unspoken consensus, they sat down together in front of the tv, and House turned on the Discovery Channel. There was a special on parasites that changed the behaviors of their hosts, including the Cordyceps fungus that infected ants and produced chemicals that acted on their brains, causing them to climb up a blade of grass and disperse the spores when their heads literally exploded.

House's own head was starting to buzz, and his thigh to throb dully in anticipation of real pain. He shifted restlessly, wondering whether he'd be able to get to one of his vials of Vicodin without Wilson noticing.

"Go ahead."

"What?"

"Go ahead," Wilson repeated without looking at him. "Just go get your Vicodin. I'll fill you in if you miss anything important."

"Are you serious?"

"House, you probably have hundreds of pills stashed away in here. Did you really expect me to go through the entire apartment with a fine-toothed comb and then, what, conduct a full body cavity search?" House opened his mouth and Wilson waved a hand at him preemptively. "You're checking into rehab in twelve hours. You think _I _want to deal with your pain and nausea all night? No thanks, I'll leave that to the professionals."

House briefly considered going cold turkey just on principle, but the thought was so terrifying that he decided that Wilson had a good point. He limped over to the closet and fumbled in the pocket of one of his ill-fitting old sports coats, pulled out a vial of pills, and popped two of them dry.

When he rejoined Wilson, his friend said in a carefully neutral voice, "By the way… it's probably better if you don't come back here right away when you're released."

_When_, not _if_, House noted, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"I'd like you to come stay with me for a while. At Amber's."

"At Amber's," House echoed. _At the Amber Volakis Memorial Apartment_, he could have quipped, but didn't.

"Yeah. You shouldn't be alone."

"Is this so you can keep an eagle eye on me, or to ease those long lonely nights?"

"Yes," Wilson said.

* * *

While Wilson retrieved his emergency toiletries kit from the car, House emptied his bladder and cleaned up, trying not to look at himself too hard in the mirror. He unbuttoned and took off his shirt, unpeeled his socks, and had just changed into pajama pants when Wilson returned.

Wilson raised his eyebrows at the small suitcase just inside the bedroom door, hefted it experimentally. "You're already packed?"

House turned to give him a sharp look. "Yeah."

"They suggested that you bring three shirts."

"So I've been told," House said, looking at him even more intently.

"I'd have a couple of extra on hand, just in case."

"Of course you would," House murmured automatically, but his mind was working furiously as he tossed Wilson an old t-shirt and a pair of elasticized sweat pants. Wilson went into the bathroom and closed the door. House lay down on the bed and listened to the high-pitched hum of an electric toothbrush, the sounds of spitting, the muffled flush.

_Wilson had watched him pack that suitcase. He had picked him up from the bar in response to House's panicked speed dial, when Amber reappeared in the middle of Foreman's phone call. He had told him about his college friend's facility near Philly. Hadn't he?_

Wilson emerged to find him staring fixedly at the ceiling. House waited for Wilson to settle himself on the other side of the bed before saying, "Why haven't you taken me to rehab already?"

"Um. It took a little while to make the arrangements, and we're both tired, so I thought tomorrow morning would be better."

"Yeah. But why didn't you take me _before_ today?"

Wilson turned his head, frowning a little. "After your incredibly stupid insulin idea, you said the hallucinations were gone."

"They were. Until later that night." His heart speeding up, House searched his friend's face for any spark of recognition, but saw none.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said sincerely. "I didn't know. You've seemed better the past few days. More confident about your medical decisions. And I know how you hate it when I hover."

House turned on his side to conceal the sweat breaking out on his brow. He felt the mattress shift with Wilson's weight and the faintest brush of air against the back of his neck as the other man extended his arm tentatively, then withdrew.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, House couldn't sleep. His mind went over and over the events of the past few days, struggling to sort out truth from fiction, and failing. He said nothing to Wilson while curiosity and his instinct for self-preservation warred inside him. But in the end, as it so often did, curiosity won out.

"Wilson?"

"What?" Wilson mumbled, sounding half-asleep.

"Did I tell you that I had sex with Cuddy?"

Wilson's eyes widened, and he turned and propped himself up on his elbow. "Seriously?"

"No," House sighed.

Wilson frowned. "Wait. You _didn't_ have sex with Cuddy."

"No. And apparently I didn't squeal to _you_ about it, either."

"Oh." Wilson took a second to process this. "You mean you've been hallucinating me, too?"

"Hell," House said, hating the ragged edge of hopelessness in his voice, "I can't even be sure that I'm talking to you _now_."

Wilson raised his eyebrows, then slid his hand across the space between them.

"Ow!"

"Sorry. I thought that maybe if I pinched you-"

"I've been hallucinating, not _dreaming_, you idiot," House growled, annoyed enough to forget for a moment how frightened he was. "I just told you that I was convinced I had _sex with Cuddy_, for Christ's sake."

"Oh, right," Wilson nodded. "Well, that's a relief. I mean, I was going to offer to try that next, but if that's not going to prove anything either…"

The corner of House's mouth twitched upward despite his tiredness. "Go to hell."

Wilson rolled onto his back and flung a forearm over his eyes. "I hate to break this to you," he said, suddenly sober, "but I'm pretty sure we're already there."

"Yeah," House said. And then, even more softly, "Sorry."


End file.
